


Loved So Loudly

by dogeared



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-29
Updated: 2011-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-15 05:14:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogeared/pseuds/dogeared
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danny's loud enough for both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loved So Loudly

Steve thinks maybe he's gotten used to it, the quiet. It's how he'd known something wasn't right, when Hiro's men came looking for the toolbox, because no matter how careful they were being, any sound would have been too much. The house is still and silent as a tomb, especially early in the morning, when the loudest thing on two floors is Steve's own breathing, the rustle of the sheets against his skin, the thump of his heart in his chest. That's what propelled him out of bed this morning, does most mornings, pushes him up and out, to drown out all the conversations he and his father never had with the rush of water in his ears, because being used to something doesn't mean he's made peace with it.

He doesn't play music in the house, saves his banging around for the garage, which, even with the car and his dad's tools, handles worn smooth from where he'd held them, feels like maybe it could be his sanctuary, too. So he's not sure how Danny manages to keep sneaking up on him in the midst of all that echoing quiet, because if there's anything Danny isn't, it's quiet—except that Danny's been sneaking up on him in lots of ways, ever since Steve first pointed his gun at him. Danny did it again, though, appeared in the kitchen early, while Steve was eating breakfast, his hair still damp and cool against the nape of his neck, and he ribbed Danny about how "hello" is considered a polite greeting to cover the fact that he fumbled his glass of orange juice. He licked the knuckle where the juice sloshed over, swore Danny was tracking the movement, but he just shook his head, said, "You know what's supposed to say hello? Your _alarm system_ ," hooked a thumb over his shoulder, said, "and are you thinking about being ready to go anytime soon, Steven, huh?"

That was a good twelve hours ago, and right now, right this minute, Danny's installed on his couch, his knee a steady pressure against Steve's thigh. When he's alone, Steve watches games muted with the captions on, but Danny has the TV up loud as it will go, so that the coaches and refs and players and commentators all sound like they're yelling at the top of their lungs, and Danny's yelling right back at them, and Steve sinks back into the cushions, turns his beer bottle around and around in his hands, lets the cacophony of it wash over him, strange and welcome.

Danny yelled at him today, too—he yells at Steve a lot, in the car, in the office, on the sidewalks of Honolulu, on stakeouts, and most recently, tucked into a tight corner of a warehouse, suspects close enough that they really should have been a little more worried about being stealthy—he let Steve know exactly how he felt about waiting for Kono and Chin to get into position, his thoughts on rusted metal and lockjaw and certain lieutenant commanders displaying a self-protective instinct once in a while. It's scary how much Steve's come to rely on that, his own noisy personal barometer of how their cases are going, of his own headspace, of whether he's headed the right way or the wrong way, whether he's gone too far or not far enough. Danny yelled, and Steve yelled a little, too, and they caught their bad guys, and nobody had to get a tetanus shot, and it all felt so good and so right that Steve invited Danny over for pizza and beers and the game, because he couldn't imagine going back to his house and being alone in all that quiet.

Which is how they've ended up here, the game over now, Danny reaching for the remote and clicking off the TV. He shifts on the couch so that he's not touching Steve anymore; his elbows are resting on his thighs, hands hanging loose between his knees, and Steve might think he was relaxed, except for the way he's rubbing his thumb and index finger together, over and over. Danny watches his hands for a long minute and then turns to look at Steve, looks right at him and says, "Are you really going to make me say it?" Steve feels a thrill of arousal deep in his belly, like today, this week, all these months have been a long slow burn—and he always wants to hear what Danny has to say, he wants Danny to tell him anything, everything, all the time, and he swallows and says, "Yeah, Danno."

Steve's ready to see if there's any possible way they can both fit on the couch without grievous bodily injury, or to sweep everything off the coffee table, or to just shove it and the couch out of the way and make room on the floor—any horizontal surface—but Danny's laughing at him like he knows exactly what Steve's thinking and hustling him upstairs instead, talking the whole time, not letting Steve get a word in edgewise while he's skimming Steve's t-shirt over his shoulders, while he's sitting on the edge of the bed and unbuttoning his own shirt, and even when Steve hauls him up again and gets his mouth on Danny's, Danny's still slipping words between kisses, Danny's grunting like he's still carrying on a goddamned conversation when Steve pushes him down onto the bed and stops letting him up for air altogether.

Danny's loud enough for both of them, and the sound of it fills the room, the house, fills up all the quiet empty spaces in Steve, makes him ache in the best way, and it would be more than enough, Danny here with him, rutting against him, but Danny isn't satisfied until Steve's making noise, too, until the groans feel like they're being ripped out of him. "Come on," Danny says, "come on, come on," and his hands are all over Steve, touching him everywhere, and Steve hears himself grinding out, "Please, please, Danny," and Danny says, "Shhhh, shh, shh, it's okay," and Steve comes hard with a shout, loud enough that his ears are still ringing with it when Danny tips over the edge, too.

And in the morning, there will be an argument about why sugary cereal is okay and malasadas aren't, and Danny will recap last night's game play by play, in excruciating detail, even though Steve was right there with him, and Steve'll tell Danny to shut up, please, just shut up for a minute, and they'll both know he doesn't mean it.


End file.
